


the call of snow

by tealatte



Category: Dark Souls III
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Writing Exercise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:35:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25413283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tealatte/pseuds/tealatte
Summary: It’s the illusion of peace, but peace nonetheless.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	the call of snow

**Author's Note:**

> a little bit of a warning: i love the connection between sulyvahn and the painted world and wanted explore it... though it's probably more accurate to say i wanted to write about very specific interpretations (aka i didn't do much lore-checking). if you're okay with that, then please proceed.

The snow whirls around yet only silence befit the hidden city, with the sole exception being the patrolling footsteps of his knights.

It’s the illusion of peace, but peace nonetheless. Not unlike the decrepit painting; foolish Corvians satisfied with their own complacency, but perhaps he had judged too harshly. The quietude was something to be valued after a time of many tribulations to achieve his ambition. But it was only the same in name, one Sulyvahn doubts he would have truly experienced had he stayed.

The puppets were all set for the grand stage. The Profaned Capital, heavily guarded by his trusted jailers, confined the giant and his subjects to the burnt kingdom. Anor Londo under siege through the weakening of the old royals; the allying Aldrich set to devour when the time comes. And leaving the high wall of Lothric was simply an impossible task. Not that much effort was needed to persuade Prince Lothric, who shared disinterest for the flame.

(And if an unkindled or an undead were to find themselves at the old hub, the sister of the nun, one of dark, shall appear.)

Only time will end this rotting play – the fading of fire into ash before being swallowed into the vast deep. Fortunately, the flame was flickering more and more. It won’t be long now.

He peers out of the frosted windows. It’s an incredibly familiar sight. He loathed to think nostalgia existed within him, though it would be wrong to say he harbored hatred for his homeland. Rather, he was merely indifferent. He could certainly recall the days spent at the chapel, from mornings to nights studying sorcery left behind by the previous generation until he could recite the spells like the back of his hand. The occasional chatter from the Corvians of pasts he could never understand, pasts that never once involved the cold, white wilderness he was so used to but something grander, interesting, bloody. The feeling of never truly belonging, despite being welcomed into their quaint village with open arms. The endlessly falling snow drifting in the wind, clinging onto his raggedy clothes like a blanket. The wrapping of his mother’s branches, whose face he has long forgotten by now, resembling that of a bird nest.

He has never once regretted leaving. There was simply nothing for him. Not of mastery of sorcery, not of any satisfaction of curiosity, because the outside has given him everything and more. Endless scrolls of sorceries much more potent than those from the chapel. A throne for the pontiff, like Father Ariandel. The humiliation of the foolish royal gods for their hubris of the past. The cleansing of the rot. Undying flame.

He had crafted something magnificent for himself. What use did he have for the painted world?

Regardless, he couldn’t help but wonder if the painting has been scorched yet. If the blood had rotted. If a new painting has been commissioned, and of what? Would it still be of a barren land of snow? Or perhaps something different, one of ash, of lava, of a lush garden? Would the Corvians all reincarnate into the next era, or was it the end for their sorry lives? Pointless thoughts that occupied his mind in leisure, like being nipped at by pesky bugs. He considered using a spell to remedy it. He should be careful not to dwell on such things.

The snow shifts and settles in the evening, awaiting the next day to descend again. The moon high in the sky like always, the night sky bathing the city in a deep blue. The freezing chill blew through the cracks of the chapel and comforts him. 

Those nibbling thoughts never did cease, even in death.


End file.
